


Visiting Hours

by LapisLazuli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg has a punk tattoo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli/pseuds/LapisLazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the sight of Gregory peacefully sleeping, Mycroft exhaled hard and let his calm mask slip just a little bit. Pain and exhaustion shone in his eyes, written in the lines of his forehead and the slightest tremor in his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Raggedyranger, for the 2013 CupidMystrade Valentine Gift Exchange. Per request, it includes hurt/comfort and Greg's punk tattoo. Hope you enjoy!

The hospital around him was hushed, although not silent – never silent, even at this late hour – as Mycroft Holmes made his way down the corridor.  He walked softly but with purpose, his chin raised high and his feet making a gentle patter on the linoleum.  His ubiquitous umbrella was held loosely in one hand, his fingers grasping the crooked handle with firm pressure.  His face bore a small, impersonal smile, which he directed at any person who happened to cross his path as he made his way deeper into the building.

Somehow, despite the fact that visiting hours had ended long before, no one tried to prevent him from entering the room that was his destination.

Mycroft stepped through the door, allowing it to snick shut softly behind him as his eyes swept the room.  Dim lighting did nothing to disguise the figure on the bed, face relaxed in sleep, chest rising and falling gently.  Gregory Lestrade.

At the sight of Gregory peacefully sleeping, Mycroft exhaled hard and let his calm mask slip just a little bit.  Pain and exhaustion shone in his eyes, written in the lines of his forehead and the slightest tremor in his fingers.  He felt a momentary impulse to lean back against the door in relief, but he suppressed it.

Instead, he drew another slow, fortifying breath and walked toward the bed, taking care to keep his footfalls silent.  Gregory was sleeping on his side, facing the door, one hand extended and dangling over the edge of the bed, the other curled up near his chest.  The stiff hospital blankets covered him to his armpits, and a thin hospital gown, tied at the neck with a big loopy bow, enclosed his shoulders and chest.  Above the bed, his IV bag dripped a slow trickle of liquid into the tube inserted into the back of his hand.

Mycroft stood staring down at Gregory for several minutes.  Initially, he just drank in the sight of that charming, expressive, careworn face, so relaxed and gentled now by sleep.  After several minutes, though, he could not prevent his brain from organizing the details that he absorbed during his scrutiny, and drawing conclusions about the man before him.

Gregory had been shot in the leg during a chase.  Mycroft knew this before he arrived at the hospital, just as he knew that Gregory had still managed to retain the suspect long enough for other officers to arrive and arrest the man.  He also knew that Gregory was going to be fine, that he was seriously but not critically injured, that he would be released from the hospital within a few days and back on the job within a matter of weeks.

What he saw now, though, were the details – those little bits of fact that were left out of the surveillance reports he regularly received.  He saw that the man had punched Gregory twice in the face and once in the back during their scuffle, after he shot him.  He saw that Gregory had returned the favor with enough force to do some damage to his hand.  He saw that the policeman had been in at least one other fight since the last time he saw him in person, approximately two weeks ago.  He saw that Gregory had not been sleeping well lately and was eating too much greasy take-away.

Mycroft walked slowly around the bed to the other side, still examining every inch of Gregory.  The edge of a darker mark caught his eye, peeking through the gap in the laced-up hospital gown where the flap had fallen askew on Gregory’s upper back.

Gently, Mycroft reached out with one finger and pulled the gap wider.  As he did, his fingertip barely brushed the soft bare skin of Gregory’s back, and he had to quell the urge to jerk his hand away at the heat that shot up his arm from the contact.  Instead, he moved his finger back to hold the fabric out of the way as he examined the mark.

It was a tattoo, placed on his upper back, just to the right of his spine.  Black and white, rough, clearly old and inked by an amateur.  Depicted was the image of a man, bent over, legs spread, holding a guitar over his head with both hands clenched around the neck, clearly on the verge of smashing the instrument into the ground.  It looked familiar to Mycroft, but he could not place the image.  He stared at it for some time, committing it to memory.

With a soft groan that was completely startling in the hush of the hospital room, Gregory shifted slightly on the bed.  Quickly but deliberately Mycroft took a small step backward, clasping his umbrella with both hands and arranging his features into an expression of mild sympathy.  He waited, his eyes on Gregory’s face, to see if the man woke up.

He did not.  As Mycroft watched, Gregory shifted onto his back and stretched one arm above his head before settling back into the stillness of deep sleep.  Once he was certain that Gregory was going to remain asleep, Mycroft moved back around the bed until he reached the little side table near Gregory’s head.  He brought his own fingertips to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss against them.

Softly, slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Mycroft lowered his hand and pressed his fingertips to Gregory’s forehead, fancifully allowing himself to imagine that he was leaving the kiss behind as he withdrew his fingers.  Gregory did not stir at the gentle touch, his face still relaxed and soft in the way that only sleep could bring.

Mycroft watched him for another minute, letting his mind drift on the currents of “what if” and “might have been”.  Gregory nearly died tonight.  He had gotten close before, and he probably would again.  But for some reason it was this time, tonight, that had been Mycroft’s catalyst.

Mycroft could not let the man die without ever knowing how he felt.

Stepping back, Mycroft opened his coat and withdrew a sealed card, along with a single lavender rose from which every thorn had been removed.  He doubted that Gregory would be able to recognise the message in the flower without help, or that he would even think to try, which was why he chose to include a card.  But he knew that the other man would enjoy the rose anyway.

He brought the flower to his nose and inhaled the delicate fragrance.  The soft petals brushed across his lips, and he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sensual feeling – like the caress of a lover – before placing the flower and the card on the little table.  Then, somehow feeling simultaneously relieved, anxious, and excited, Mycroft turned and quickly left the room.

Minutes after the door shut behind him, Gregory Lestrade opened his eyes, and his lips curved into a pleased smile.

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: A thornless lavender rose represents true love and love at first sight, and the tattoo Mycroft saw on Greg's back is an iconic image from The Clash (Google The Clash and you'll see it).


End file.
